


Be My Drug of Choice

by BitterlyByronic (A_Little_Bit_Broken)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Johnlock, Everybody's a little bit broken, Everyone Has Issues, Homeless Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD John, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Kink Meme, Sherlock's still an addict, Sort of What If, but they're working on it, finding yourself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Bit_Broken/pseuds/BitterlyByronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129779206#t129779206">this prompt</a> on the kink meme.</p><p>John has gotten used to having Sherlock around. They may not exactly be friends or talk about important things but he's come to find comfort in his presence so, as a doctor, when Sherlock gets sick, the obvious thing to do is help him. </p><p>As they get closer and their bond grows can they heal the wounds the other carries in their soul and heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably change the title of this, I dunno. This rating, however, will _definitely_ change at some point.
> 
> This is neither beta'd nor Britpicked so sorry for any errors and the like. It's also my first fanfic so yep. Hopefully it won't be too awful. Comments, suggestions, feedback, etc. are love.

It's late when John finally finishes up at the clinic, hours after he’s seen his last patient and was free to go home. He's stayed behind, however, to sort some files and clean up although he didn't have to and although cleaning wasn't always easy with his leg. He had needed to bide his time and cleaning up had seemed better than just sitting around. He glances at his watch again as he gathers his things, bundling up in his jacket and scarf against the cold. It’s nearly spring but the temperatures are still biting cold. 

He pushes his way out the back door of the private clinic, rubbing his hands together as he glances around. He could have left through the front door and easily gotten a taxi home but the whole reason he's stayed late is for this. For him. John isn't sure he'll turn up tonight but he needed to check. It’s been nearly two weeks since John saw him last and while it isn't unusual for him to just disappear at random, this is the longest since they've become... acquainted that John has gone without seeing him. He is just hoping nothing’s happened to him. 

He finds it somewhat funny, when he thinks about it, how invested he's become in this man he barely knows more than to say hello to and to talk about nothing really with every few days. And it's sheer happenstance that they even came to do _that_. John remembers their first proper meeting. He'd seen him around before as he made his way to and from work, just another of the bodies that had been swept up and tossed to the wayside of life, leaving them in the gutter, but there had also been something to him, a sort of fire and energy that had struck John as uncommon for someone on the streets. So much so that, when John had stayed late one previous night to do some paperwork and had gone out back to empty the bin of papers into the skip and had seen him, sitting on the wall, staring up at the sky as he smoked lazily, he couldn't help but say something to him.

"Those'll kill you, you know?" he'd said. In retrospect, it probably hadn't been the best of starts but he hadn't seemed to be bothered much by John's judgement. He'd just taken the cigarette into his fingers to look at it and had said in a disturbingly wistful sort of voice, "One can only hope." 

John hadn't known what to say to that so he hadn't said anything, just dumped the rubbish as had been his intention in coming outside in the first place and turned to go back inside, leaning heavily on his cane. He was pulling the door open when that voice had come again, deep and rumbling clear this time, "You know that limp's psychosomatic, right?"

Turning narrowed eyes on him, John had frowned. What did this man know about him to be telling him about his limp?

"It's the truth," he'd continued, tapping his temple. "It's all in your head." Grinning, he turned to John, his eyes gleaming eerily in the night. "Don't worry though, we're all a little bit crazy."

John had just nodded, murmured, "I guess we are," and disappeared inside. He'd thought about the encounter for days, more intrigued with this strange man than ever. Which, probably, really did say something about his state of mind. 

It had been a few more days before John had seen him again. He'd stopped off at a Tesco for groceries on his way home and was just pushing out the door when his eye caught on curly dark hair across the street. John would have known that unruly mop anywhere. He was sitting with another, younger, man and three children and they were talking animatedly, heatedly. It was obvious that they were all on the streets, next to nothing to their names but they looked so involved in that conversation, so happy to be having it that, for a moment, John had felt a pang of jealousy. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd felt as happy as they looked.

The next night John had waited at work again. He didn't know if the area behind the clinic was a hangout spot for the man but he’d hoped it was, he had wanted to see him again. Luckily for John, he turned up. "Saw you yesterday," John got by way of greeting when he appeared. "Figured you might want to say hi. So," he gave a two-fingered salute, "hello there, Dr. Watson."

John had looked up sharply. "Oh, don't look so worried," he’d soothed. "I got your name off the clinic, I'm not following you or anything." He hesitated a moment. "I'm Sherlock. Holmes."

John had smiled and nodded, feeling he could trust him, though _why_ he'd felt that he didn't know. "It's nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. Very nice."

Sherlock had smiled back and that was that. After that, they'd see each other every few days, sometimes it was intentional, sometimes it was not. Mostly, they just existed in each other’s company. They didn't talk much and when they did it was innocuous. They didn't talk about how Sherlock had ended up on the streets or the fact that the way he sometimes rubbed at his arms was indicative of him using and they didn't talk about John's depression or the way his hands sometimes shook or how he reacted to loud sounds. They were trying to hide from those things and, when they both existed in the same space together, they could ignore them a little easier. Instead, they talked about random things, Sherlock making fun of John's work in the clinic and John telling Sherlock to eat more and stop smoking. Sherlock listened on the latter (or, rather, he tried to) but the former seemed a lost cause. Even when John made him food, he gave it to the children that John saw him with from time to time instead of eating it himself. Soon, John just gave up and made the food with the kids in mind instead. 

Everything was going well – John was even able to think of things to write for his therapy-mandated blog – until the first time Sherlock disappeared. John, used now to seeing him every few days, had known something was wrong when he hadn’t seen or heard from him in nearly a week. He hadn’t realised before that he'd become quite so accustomed to Sherlock's presence, used to seeing him around the clinic's surrounding areas even if he didn't speak with him. He'd been worried then and about to go looking for him (not that he'd have known where to start) when Sherlock had returned just as suddenly as he'd disappeared. He'd offered no proper explanation and John had been pissed about it for a long time. He'd viewed it as common courtesy to tell someone who worried about you why you'd randomly dropped off the face of the earth but Sherlock hadn't shared his views. He didn't subscribe to such 'trivial notions' as he called them. He was back now so what was the problem? John didn't know how to explain it so he'd just left it alone. Things between them had become a little less easy after that but they'd still... supported each or whatever it was that they did for each was called. 

Sherlock had disappeared again a few times after that but he always came back (much like a temperamental cat) before the week was out. John had his suspicions as to why Sherlock disappeared but he never brought them up; the argument didn't seem worth it. Sherlock was a grown man and he could make his own choices. 

That didn't mean John didn't worry, however. He did, probably excessively, and that worry is why he is standing outside in the cold night air, hoping against hope that Sherlock bloody Holmes will turn up and not make John have to go looking for him when he has no idea where on earth he could possibly be. 

John stands outside for nearly twenty minutes and is about to give up the wait when the light sound of shuffling footsteps reaches him. He turns, hope blooming in his chest. "Thank go—” he starts, only to cut off when he realises the man standing away from him is not Sherlock. He recognises him as one of the other homeless that's Sherlock's often with, however – Billy, he thinks Sherlock said his name was – so he still holds on to a bit of his hope that Sherlock is all right. 

Billy shivers slightly, looking him over, obviously cold. John is tempted to offer him inside to warm up but he already looks ready to bolt so John doubts he'd accept. "John Watson?" he asks, before continuing at John's nod, "Sherlock sent me. He's a bit under the weather, as it where, but he said you'd probably be pitching a fit from not seeing him by now, so I was to come and tell you to stop."

John would have rolled his eyes at Sherlock's ego if he hadn't got stuck on the 'under the weather' part of the statement. "Sherlock's sick?" he asks. If he'd been sick all this time...

Billy nods. "Yea, he came back a bit out of it and then it got worse yesterday. He's an awful invalid. Whines about everything."

So he _had_ been away. John is tempted to smile but if he knows anything about Sherlock it's how stubborn he is. He has to be in a truly bad way to not get over his illness by sheer force of will (or to not just ignore it if that didn't happen). "Can you take me to him?" John finds himself asking before he even registers thinking about it. 

Billy raises an eyebrow. "I'm a doctor," John continues, "and it sounds like that's exactly what Sherlock needs."

Shrugging, Billy inclines his head. "I guess I could. If it makes him stop complaining, sure." John nods, tells him to wait while he gets his medical kit and heads inside. 

Billy's wandered off down the alley when John comes back out but is still waiting on him. He sticks his hands in his pockets and heads off, obviously expecting John to follow. It's not the easiest thing to do with a bum leg but John manages to keep up as Billy winds his way through streets and alleys. They finally come to a decrepit building that John thinks, from the look of it, used to house some sort of large business and Billy points to the stairs that lead up to the second floor. "He's up there and in a right mood so beware." 

John murmurs an acknowledgement and thanks before heading up the stairs. It's slightly slow going but John makes it up soon enough. He looks around. The room is large and dark but John notes a faint glow like shielded candlelight in a corner at the far end. He moves towards it. "Sherlock?" he calls. "That you?"

Getting no answer, John moves closer. It soon becomes clear that the form huddled on the old, tattered mattress _is_ Sherlock. "Jesus," John breathes out, shifting so he can stoop beside him. He's shaking and sweating and, when John brushes his curls out of the way and puts a hand to his forehead, he's burning up. 

Sherlock's eyes open at the touch and he glares at John. "What are you doing here?" he asks, voice hoarse. 

"Looking after you," John answers, opening his kit. He can give Sherlock medication but what he needs is somewhere better to recuperate. He won't get better staying here in the cold and dirt. 

"I don't need looking after," Sherlock grumbles.

"Oh, no, of course not," John mutters. "My mistake." He'd thought Billy was exaggerating about Sherlock's mood when he'd seen the state he was in but he should have known better. This is Sherlock, after all; he can find the time and energy to have a strop no matter what. 

Sherlock glares again when John holds out medication to him after checking him over. "You're going to take these," John tells him, "and then we'll see what we can do about getting you home." 

He takes the pills with only minimal fussing and then, "You do realise that getting me home isn't a viable consideration, right? That's the thing about being homeless, you don't have a home."

"I meant home with me," John clarifies, even though he's certain Sherlock knows what he meant and just wants to be a nuisance. "You can't stay here. You won't get better if you do. You'll probably end up catching pneumonia instead."

"And you just assume I'll go home with you?" Sherlock's voice is fading now and his eyes are closed. 

"Doctor's orders," says John, working his way to his feet. "Can you stand?"

Sherlock just grumbles and turns his face into the mattress. John cringes internally at the sight and heads for the stairs to see if Billy's still around. He certainly can't carry Sherlock himself, especially if he's going to be uncooperative. 

Luckily, Billy's still around and willing to face Sherlock's ire to help him. Between the two of them (but mostly Billy) they get Sherlock down the stairs and outside. They have to walk a ways up the road before they can get a taxi but they make it and get one almost immediately. Billy basically dumps Sherlock across the seat and closes the door with a nod at John. "Take care of him, yea?"

John nods back and gives the driver his address. Sherlock doesn't say anything -- John supposes he's too tired to be insulting now -- just lets out a mighty sigh and settles into the seat. John watches him as they drive through the streets of London. _Don't worry,_ he thinks, _we'll get you back to your normal caustic self in no time._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly triggering? I dunno, just be wary.

Sherlock's half asleep by the time they get to John's flat and although it's on the ground floor it's still a bit of an ask for John to support Sherlock all the way inside. Luckily, the taxi driver is a nice enough fellow and helps John bring Sherlock in and settle him on the couch. John thanks him with quite possibly the biggest tip he's ever given anyone and shuts the door after him before going back to attend his patient. He sits on the coffee table and takes Sherlock's temperature again. It's still high but it has come down a few degrees.

"Leave me alone," Sherlock grumbles, curling up into himself on the couch. 

John just rolls his eyes. "Most people would be grateful to someone who's caring for them in their time of need," he points out, going to get Sherlock a blanket since he still hadn't stopped shivering. 

"I never asked you to care," Sherlock shoots back when John returns with the blanket to drape over him. 

"No, I suppose you didn't," John sighs. "But I do anyway so you'll just have to deal with it. That's what people do."

Sherlock mumbles something in response that John doesn't quite catch but he pulls the blanket closer around himself and John smiles faintly. It feels like he's won a small battle. He still has a way to go before he wins the war but any victory is nice. 

Cringing at his own metaphors, he heads for the kitchen where he makes a small pot of broth and spoons Sherlock a bowl. He'll probably whine about being made to eat just like everything so far but John doesn't care. He needs to eat to get better and John is going to see to it that he does. 

Sherlock eyes the bowl suspiciously when John brings it out and then covers his face with the blanket when John informs him that yes, it _is_ for him and he _is_ going to drink it all even if John has to pour it down his throat for it to happen. 

"I'm not hungry," he says in a vaguely petulant voice. John rubs at his jaw. It feels almost like he's dealing with a child excepting that most of the kids he treats are much better patients than Sherlock is proving to be.

"I don't care if you're hungry," John informs. "You're apparently very nearly never hungry so I have no intention of using that as a gauge for when you should eat. You are ill and I'm sure it's been a while since you ate last so, since you need to eat to have to energy to fight the infection and get better, you're eating."

Sherlock lowers the blanket to regard John with a raised eyebrow. "Well then."

"Well then," John echoes, pulling Sherlock up by the shoulders and rearranging the cushions behind him so he's elevated. Sherlock doesn't say or do anything in complaint but he doesn't help either. Fixing the blanket around him again, John perches on the edge of the couch and takes the tray in his lap.

"You're not really planning on feeding me," Sherlock says, sounding far more appalled than John thinks is strictly necessary, all things considered.

"I am. What of it?"

"I don't think I'm quite so poorly off that that's needed."

"Oh, really?" John gives him a droll look and holds out the spoon to him. "Let's see you then."

Sherlock's lips purse at the challenge and he takes the spoon but his hand shakes too much for him to effectively bring it to his lips without spilling. He makes a sound of frustration, dropping it. John doesn't say I told you so, just reclaims the spoon and proceeds to feed Sherlock himself. Sherlock is less than enthusiastic with the state of things but he drinks all the broth and John really can't ask for more than that. 

He makes tea afterwards and settles into the armchair to the right of the couch with a book. Sherlock's dozed off again and John just lets him sleep. It's better if as much of his energy goes into recuperating as possible and it's been established that awake he'll use it to be difficult instead, which is hardly helpful. John regards him critically from his perspective as a doctor. He's still worried about the fact that Sherlock's temperature hasn't come down as much as he would have liked but, at least, with him here, John can monitor it. If the next round of meds didn't pull it down, he'd run him a bath to help cool him down. He sighs lightly to himself, putting his feet up on the ottoman, already imagining the griping that suggestion would cause. 

_"John... John... Help me, John. Help **us**. We need you, John, please help us."_

The words echoed in the darkness and John spun, trying to find the source. There was nothing but the oppressive blackness, however, the calls seemingly coming from all sides. John backed up slowly, trying to keep away from voices that seemed to be coming closer even as he couldn't see them, pressing against his mind and making goosebumps break out on his skin. 

A hand dropped onto his shoulder from behind and John jumped forward, spinning around and nearly tripping over his own feet. The hand still hung in the air over where his shoulder had been and, as the arm and body responsible for it came into view, John felt his heart seize in his chest.

"No, no, no," he mumbled, staggering back, the gaunt, emaciated frame following. Dead eyes stared at him from out of bloodied sockets, bruised and cracked lips widening in a horrifying parody of a smile that crinkled the sloughing skin clinging stubbornly to the side of the spectre’s face and revealed the flesh beneath.

_“John...”_ It wailed plaintively, reaching from him. _“Help me.”_

_“Help **us**.”_ More voices joined in, coming from behind him.

John slowly turned his head to look at them, already knowing what he would see. Dead and decaying bodies surrounded him, bloodied and ruined, some missing limbs or, in a more horrific circumstance, clutching at a limb that remained attached by nothing more than a few thin centimetres of flesh and muscle. Yet even more others seemed to be missing even more important things, holes blown open in their heads and throats, abdomens slashed deep, eviscerating them or bodies blackened and charred and ruined by heat and shrapnel.

They reached for him, voices rising in desperation and pain. _“John…”_

_“Dr. Watson...”_

_“Help us.”_

_“We don’t want to die.”_

_“Dr. Watson.”_

_“Doctor…”_

_“John.”_

_“Please…”_

John cringed, shrinking away from them. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands to his ears, trying to drown them out. “No, no, no.” He repeated to himself. He couldn’t help them, no matter how much he wanted to. They were too far gone, just as they had been in the medical tents in the war. He couldn’t. There was nothing he could do. There hadn’t been then and there still wasn’t now. 

He kept telling himself that but their wails just grew in volume, drowning him out of his own mind until he thought he was going to break from the sheer force of their screams. He lifted his head to scream right back, to tell them that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t do anything.

There was a moment’s silence and then they shuffled closer, encircling him, reaching for him in unison. _“Why?”_ they cried out together. One put a hand over his face, pressing down. _“You should have died with us, Dr. Watson.”_ He said, voice eerily flat before he increased the pressure of his fingers and shattered John’s skull.

John jolts awake, chest heaving and his skin clammy with sweat. His limbs are trembling and his mouth is dry from fear. A powerful shudder rushes through him and he sags back against the chair, staring at the ceiling as he tries to calm his breathing and his racing heart. His hands clutch at the armrests, fingers digging into the leather. 

It takes a while before the pounding in his ears dulls enough that he can register anything else. When he does, it’s to come to the awareness of eyes on him. He angles his head back down to see Sherlock staring worriedly at him. "What?" he snaps as he tries to shake the last of the threads of disorientation and fear clinging to him from the dream. He did _not_ need Sherlock to have seen that. At all. He rubs at his eyes tiredly, drops his feet to the floor and rolls his injured shoulder to work it out, stubbornly refusing to keep Sherlock’s gaze.

"Does that happen often?" Sherlock asks, working his way to sitting even though John knows it has to take effort with the way the muscles in his arms tremble when they take his weight. 

John just shrugs and gets up to put a hand to Sherlock's forehead. He does not want to talk about his dreams – nightmares – with Sherlock. He doesn't particularly want to talk of them with anyone. They’re his own problem.

Sherlock's still running hot when he checks. He glances at the clock. There's still about an hour until Sherlock's due to get his next dose of medication. "You think you can handle having breakfast," John asks, already on his way into the kitchen, eager for something innocuous – safe – to do with himself, "or shall we keep you on fluids?"

"I think I can manage if it's not anything elaborate," Sherlock says faintly. John’s not sure if his tone is because he doesn’t have to strength to talk or because he’s feeling slighted at John’s dismissal so he just nods and sets the kettle to boil while he gets out eggs and lightly toasts a couple slices of bread. 

He's halfway through scrambling the eggs when Sherlock struggling to stand catches his attention. "What are you doing?" he inquires. 

Sherlock's face flushes – which is quite the feat since he's already red from the fever. "Bathroom," he mumbles. 

"Oh, right." John waves the whisk towards a door at the end of the hall. "Through there." 

Sherlock nods and staggers off, bracing himself on the wall. "Don't fall over," John calls after him. "I can _not_ be expected to help you back up."

If Sherlock responds John doesn't hear and Sherlock's back in his spot on the couch by the time John brings out the breakfast to set in front of him. He looks tired, as if just the few feet to the bathroom and back has worn him out. John feels for him but he'd never admit it, least of all since he didn't think Sherlock would take kindly to being pitied. Instead, he holds out the tray. "Able to feed yourself this time or shall I?"

Sherlock waves a hand, which John assumes means he's to feed him again since Sherlock's eyes are drooping already. So, John does, but he doesn't get halfway through before Sherlock's waving him off with an "I think I may have been a bit presumptuous in my ability to handle solid food." John just nods, sets the tray down, and goes and gets him a bucket, just in case. And it's a good thing because Sherlock's sick within minutes. When it's evident that he's expelled everything in his stomach, John gets him a glass of water to rinse his mouth and helps him settle back against the couch.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmurs as John's fixing his pillows. 

John looks at him and shakes his head. "It's completely fine. Your only concern should be getting better. Let me worry about the rest of it."

Sherlock hums what John assumes is his assent and slips back off to sleep. John runs a hand over his hair before going to clean up and get ready for the day. If his hands still shake while he does, he determinedly ignores it.


	3. Chapter 3

When John comes back out into the living room to check on Sherlock after a shower he's still asleep, his breathing heavy. His curls are sticking to his forehead, which is damp with sweat, and he's shivering again, even with the blanket. John frowns. He starts a fire in the hearth, warming the room a few more degrees and goes and gets another glass of water and the medication before gently shaking Sherlock awake. Ideally, he'd have wanted him try to eat something again before taking the medicine but it's obvious he wouldn't be able to keep it down. "Come on," he says. "Medicine time." 

Sherlock doesn't argue – at all – and lets John press the pills into his mouth before swallowing them down with the water. He droops back against the pillows and looks John over through heavy lidded eyes. It makes John feel vaguely self-conscious since all he's wearing is slacks – still unbuttoned – with the towel he'd used to dry his hair draped over his shoulders. "Shouldn't you be at work by now?" Sherlock asks after a while, the fatigue in his voice obvious. 

John shakes his head. "Day off. And, even if it wasn't, there's no way I'd leave you here in this state."

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, but John can tell he's just saying it for the sake of saying it. He most certainly doesn't look fine and it's obvious he doesn't feel it either. 

"Right, sure," John says, slapping his thighs lightly and getting to his feet. "Nothing wrong with positive thinking. Helps the medicine along, after all. Keep it up."

Sherlock gives him a look that says he has thoughts on that statement but doesn't say anything and John goes back to curl up in his chair, laptop in hand this time instead of a book. He hasn't written anything for his blog in over a week and he's starting to feel bad about it. Not by much, mind you, but enough that he feels the need to make a go at it, however cursory. 

He ends up staring at the screen for long minutes before the boredom gets to him. He's just doesn't know what to write about. It isn't like anything much has happened in the past few days, after all. It has mostly just been the tedium of day after day at the clinic and then coming home to his empty flat to read until he falls asleep and the dreams claim him. 

John sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. It's all rather blindingly dull apart from the nightmares and John has no intention of writing about those, no matter how private his blog might be. A shift from the direction of the couch as Sherlock tries to get more comfortable captures his attention and for a moment John wonders... No, he shakes his head internally. He isn't about to use Sherlock as fodder for his blog. That isn't what Sherlock is for him. He is a friend of sorts, a kind of comfort, a spark of colour in a world washed in dull shades of grey. 

Putting his laptop aside for a moment, John regards him quietly. "Bored?" he asks. "I can put the telly on."

Sherlock raises his eyes to meet John's and shrugs underneath his blanket. "I'm used to it. I'm fine."

John raises an eyebrow. "You're used to being bored?"

"Constantly." Sherlock says in a weary, put out sort of voice that John knows has nothing to do with his current state of illness. No, this is obviously a long-standing grievance of Sherlock's. 

"Well, why not find things that interest, then?"

Sherlock gives him a look that clearly says he thinks John is an idiot for even asking such a question but answers anyway. "I have tried," he sighs. "But nothing is good enough. It's all dull and so I've just learnt to deal with being bored." 

"And how _do_ you deal with being bored?" John asks, though he fears he can guess. 

Another look, this one a bit more of a glare. "How do you think?" he snaps. 

"Yes, right, sorry. Shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, you shouldn't have," Sherlock mutters. 

"Right," John offers a conciliatory smile. "Telly, then?"

Sherlock sighs and waves an imperious hand. "If you must."

John wants to shake his head, or roll his eyes, or go over there and thump Sherlock but he doesn't. Instead, he just reaches for the remote and switches on his barely used television, finds a daytime show he figures Sherlock will _hate_ and leaves it there. Sherlock doesn't react in any obvious way but John can feel the waves of annoyance radiating in his direction. He smiles to himself and goes back to his blog. 

In the end, he ends up writing only a short post about how things had been quiet the past few days but with a friend over now he has the feeling things would be a bit more lively. Which isn't a lie, really. He isn't quite sure about the friend part but having Sherlock there even for the few hours he has been there so far has livened things up enormously for John. It isn't often he has anyone to just talk with since most of his friends he'd either drifted apart from after he'd joined the army, watched die on a battlefield, or were just as bad off as he was and didn't need any additional reminders from that time of their life. The others were usually too busy to have time to just have a chat for no reason. When he thinks about it, John realises it's probably one of the reasons he'd started this... interaction with Sherlock in the first place. He's lonely. 

Frowning at the direction of his thoughts, John gets up, stretching. It's been about an hour and Sherlock has been drifting in and out of sleep, squirming around on the couch. The blanket has slipped down to his waist and one hand hangs in the air over the edge of the couch. John heads back to his room to grab a shirt before meandering back into the kitchen to get Sherlock another glass of water, which he brings back to place on the coffee table. Sherlock opens bleary eyes to look at him at the sound. John lowers himself to sit on the coffee table, hands gripping the edge and his bad leg stretched out in front of him. He nods to the water. "For you," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Sherlock mumbles. "But then again I've also been worse, so.” He stretches a hand in the vague direction of the water and John hands it to him. 

"Your fever's not breaking," he says conversationally, looking somewhere over the back of the couch. "And while fevers are good in that it means your body's doing its job, yours is a little high for comfort."

"And?" Sherlock prompts, eyes watchful as he hands the now empty glass back. 

"And I was thinking a bath might do you good – well, a sponge bath." He looks at Sherlock now. "Up to you though. We can keep up the medication and see if it starts working if you don't want it."

Sherlock leans back against the couch at an angle. "I assume you're proposing it because you think it would do me good."

John frowns slightly. "Of course I am. But, considering how you're only a barely grudgingly agreeable patient as it is, I figured I'd ask before I started trying to strip and bathe you – even if it's for your health."

"Well, I thank you for the consideration then." Sherlock says, with what John tentatively wants to call a smile. He shrugs. "Sure, let's get it over with."

Surprised, it takes John a moment to react. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to agree so easily. He'd expected to have to fight and argue with him, hashing out why he needed to do it until he was blue in the face. "Oh, uh, sure. I'll be right back, then."

Sherlock nods, not looking at him and John gets up, puts the glass in the sink and goes and gathers the necessities. When he comes back with the basin of water, sponge, wash-cloth and towel, Sherlock is propped awkwardly up against the back of the couch as if he'd started to get up but had run out of energy. He's kicked the blanket away and his shirt is half unbuttoned, baring his neck and part of his chest from where it dragged along the couch. John can only stare for a few seconds. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice careful and controlled. This had better be good. 

"I was trying to be useful. I don't think you want to get the couch wet, after all, and I'm more than certain we can't do this with me dressed."

"The couch will be fine." John says, resting the basin on the coffee table so that he can help Sherlock the rest of the way out of his shirt and press him back to lie down after he's draped the towel underneath him on the couch. He pulls the table closer and, sitting beside Sherlock on the couch, dips the sponge in the water before squeezing it out and pressing it lightly to Sherlock's skin. He starts at the top and works his way down, stroking short lines from Sherlock's forehead to his temples, then from his temples to his cheeks, from his cheeks to his chin and then down to his neck. 

Sherlock shifts slightly under his ministrations, not exactly shivering but John pauses. "Okay?" he asks. Sherlock nods and he continues, dipping the sponge again before he continues on to Sherlock's chest and arms. 

John is slow and careful, following the curve of every muscle, every dip and crease, making sure that he bathes every inch of Sherlock's skin. He doesn't comment on the needle marks on Sherlock's inner arm when he comes to them, just goes over them with as much care as he's done everything so far and continues on. He tilts Sherlock up after he's finished his chest and arms so he can bathe his back before he moves on and turns his attention to Sherlock's legs. 

He helps Sherlock out of the jeans he's wearing and sets them to the side with his shirt. He starts with Sherlock's thighs and works his way down with still careful strokes. There is a strange, awkward sort of intimacy to the whole thing but John chooses not to think about it and Sherlock, for his part, stays quiet beneath John's hands. Or, rather, he does until John runs the sponge over the back of one of his knees and he makes an odd sort of growling squeak in the back of his throat and pulls his leg away. 

John raises an eyebrow and looks up at him but Sherlock refuses to meet his gaze, looking determinedly away. Well, fine then.

“Ticklish?” John asks. Sherlock doesn't answer and John swipes the sponge over the back of his knee again in retaliation. Sherlock scowls and pulls his leg further away. 

"Stop that," he hisses and John raises his hands in capitulation. He smiles at the glare Sherlock angles him but continues bathing him down without further incident. 

When he's finished, he drapes the blanket loosely over Sherlock, not wanting to get him too hot again but also not wanting to leave him vulnerable to a chill. Gathering up everything he's used, he goes to clean up before coming back to collect Sherlock's dirty clothes and place clean ones out for him. They won't exactly be a perfect fit given the differences in height and build between the two of them but John's gotten out the longest and largest of his clothes that he can find and they should work for now. 

Sherlock regards the clothes with what, in John's opinion, is an entirely too critical eye before nodding. "Thank you," he says. 

John offers up a small smile and nods back. "Not a problem," he murmurs, going back to take up his customary spot in the armchair with a book. Everything's quiet for a few minutes and then, "You know you don't have to hover, right?" 

"Hmm?" John looks up at Sherlock. 

"You don't have to sit there all the time watching over me. I'm rather certain that even without the constant vigilance you would know if I were to take a turn for the worse."

John marks his page in the book and closes it, giving Sherlock his full attention. "Have you considered that maybe I just like this chair and the fact that it offers me the ability to check on you without much effort is just an added bonus?"

“I have, actually. After all, it's hardly a difficult observation to note that compared to the rest of the furniture in the room the cushion and arms of that chair show more wear than any other, that the TV – though it's hardly watched – is angled so that the best view is from that chair or that your two, seemingly preferred modes of entertainment, whatever it is you do on that laptop and reading have their materials within easy reach of it." Sherlock waves a hand at each thing as he points it out before eyes that shouldn't look nearly that sharp in sickness jump to John's face. "None of that means you aren't hovering, however."

John is quiet for a moment, absorbing what Sherlock has just said, letting the implication that he is so easy to read wash over him. He doesn't know that anyone else would have seen what Sherlock saw when he looked around the room but it makes him uncomfortable to think that it's so easy for this man to strip his life bare with just his eyes. He wonders what else Sherlock has figured out but hasn't found the need to say yet and it makes his stomach clench to think of the possibilities even as he marvels at the skill of it. 

He leans back in the chair, hands gripping at the arms. "Impressive," he murmurs and finds he genuinely means it. "You're still wrong about the hovering though. I'm just a doctor attending to his patient." He smiles. 

One corner of Sherlock's mouth presses upwards by the slightest fraction and his curiously coloured eyes darken to blue in amusement and what, if he were a braver man, John might dare to call pleasure. "Right. Certainly. My mistake, Dr. Watson. It was an erroneous deduction on my part. I have no idea where I would have gotten the impression of anything else." He sits up, pushing the blanket of his legs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll get dressed."

John waves a hand when Sherlock stands shakily. "You can dress in here," he says, standing himself and heading for his room to give Sherlock privacy. 

When he shuts the door behind himself, he leans back against it, arms folded as he considers. It feels as if something has changed in regards to his and Sherlock's dynamic and he can't say for sure what it is but it feels that they have gained another level of understanding of each other and are that much closer to the point were they could comfortably call each other friends. John finds he likes the idea of it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is sitting up in the couch, braced up by cushions, when John returns to the living room. His legs are pulled up, crossed at the ankles and the blanket is draped over them, blocking John's view, but John knows that the trousers he's given him have to be a few inches shy of the mark. John isn't overly short but he certainly can't compete with the long limbed frame Sherlock possesses. The shirt, short-sleeved as it is, seems to be all right, however, and Sherlock, surprisingly, seems to have no complaints to make. He'd apparently taken the time to retrieve the day's paper while he was up and is absorbed in reading it while the television plays mutely in the background. 

John re-assumes his chair and eyes Sherlock, head braced on the back of one hand. It's an interesting show, far more compelling than John would have expected watching someone read the paper could be. Sherlock's face is expressive and highly mobile, micro-expressions telegraphing easily whether or not he's pleased with what he's reading. A twitch of the lips here, an incremental furrowing of the brow there, a slight narrowing of the eyes, a pleased glint; it all adds up to tell a story and John is mesmerised. 

He doesn't know how many minutes pass before a faint frown forms on Sherlock's face and then progressively deepens. He's about to ask what's wrong when Sherlock's eyes jump up and lock with his. John flushes, embarrassed at being caught staring but Sherlock seems totally uninterested in his discomfort. "Idiots," he mutters, waving the paper. 

John raises an eyebrow. "Come again?" he asks, not following. 

Sherlock sighs and leans back in the seat. "The police," he says slowly, enunciating each syllable. "They're complete idiots. It's so obvious they've arrested the wrong man. Carter Jameson may look guilty but it's clear he was just in the wrong place at the right time, as it were. I mean, he's certainly a criminal, but rather more of the petty sort; he is hardly a _serial_ killer. If I can tell that from the paper and the few details they've put out via the press, they should be able to do the same with access to the crime scene. Really, NSY should put money into hiring more competent detectives."

"Um," John stutters for a moment, unsure of what to say. He's tempted to think Sherlock's gone delirious from the fever but it hadn't been quite that high and even so he should have been feeling slightly better now due to the bath. But, at the same time, deciding that the police have arrested the wrong man based on a newspaper article and a bit of telly seems a bit of a stretch, all things considered. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs, managing, again, to sound distinctly put out by life without even using words. Tossing the paper onto the coffee table, he rearranges himself so he can lie slightly propped up against the cushions and steeples his fingers under his chin. 

John waits, quiet and patient, for the explanation he's sure will be forthcoming. He's spent enough with Sherlock to know that he'll be hard pressed to pass up an opportunity to display his brilliance. And John can freely admit that he _is_ brilliant. He may have strayed onto a less than ideal path in his life but it doesn't diminish the firey intelligence John can see radiating from his eyes. 

"There are different kinds of killers in this world," Sherlock says after a long moment, tilting his head to look over at John, who simply nods to indicate that he is listening -- following. Satisfied, Sherlock rolls his head back so he can stare at the ceiling. "Some are sloppy, easy to catch. Others are lucky, but the really good ones, the _interesting_ ones, are careful, meticulous. They make catching them work."

"Let me guess, those are your favourites?"

Sherlock merely shrugs. The question is rather rhetorical and they both know it. "This killer is one of those. He knows what he's doing -- he has to to have evaded the police for as long as he has and to have amassed such an impressive body count -- and Jameson doesn't come close to having to having that ability."

John raises an eyebrow and fits his hands together over his stomach. "Yeah, but isn't that a thing they say about serial killers, that they're never who you expect?"

Sherlock scoffs and sits up. "That hardly applies here. Serial killers are good at pretending, good at being obscure and going unnoticed. Jameson was hardly keeping a low profile with all the petty crime."

"Maybe not," John concedes. "But I think in the end you're ignoring the biggest thing: all the evidence the police have against him." 

"I do believe you mean all the evidence they _think_ they have. If he was the killer Jameson would have understood the danger of keeping so many mementos; worse still, keeping them in such an obvious space as his home when it was more than clear that it he would eventually be arrested for any one of his more minor crimes." Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Carter Jameson is a scapegoat and someone is trying very hard to make him look guilty but that doesn't change the fact that he isn't."

John can feel a smile tugging at his mouth and fights to suppress it. It will only serve to work Sherlock up more and John knows how cutting he can be when he is feeling churlish. "How can you be so sure, Sherlock?" he asks. "The police have all the pieces and their job is to put it together. To solve the crime. It's what they do. Why do you think you can do their job better than they can with only half as many pieces?" 

"Because I _can_!" Voice ringed in irritation, Sherlock springs to his feet, the blanket falling to pool before him on the floor. He starts pacing and although John knows he should probably do something about his agitation or, at the very least, try and convince him to sit down before he falls over from the combination of muscle fatigue from illness and lack of food, he finds that the most he can do is keep from giggling at the ridiculous sight of Sherlock with his ankles on display due to John's too-short trousers as he tries to convince John that the police are wrong and the serial killer who has claimed nine victims so far is still out there. 

Swallowing his amusement, John leans forward. "You think you're smarter than the police?" 

Sherlock pauses mid-pace and looks over at him with haughty disdain evident in every line of his face. "I know I am." 

John raises an eyebrow. He'd figured out rather quickly into their interactions that Sherlock had no lack of healthy self esteem but this is rather more than he had expected. He hadn't realised that Sherlock's regard for himself ran quite that high. 

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Sherlock says, waving an hand. "It's the truth. I _am_ smarter than them. I am smarter than most people. Small-minded, the whole lot of you. No idea of all the things that pass you by that you should notice but don't. The police are like that -- ordinary -- and so they look at things and they see but they don't _observe_ and so they miss the obvious. They miss the clues staring them in the face and then things like this happen." Sighing, Sherlock sinks back into the couch, one hand tugging at his hair. "It's actually rather maddening."

Choosing to ignore the blatant insult floating in Sherlock's mini-diatribe and count it as another of his grievances against humanity as a whole, John scrubs a hand over his hair and nods faintly. "I can imagine," he murmurs, because it would certainly be irritating to see things no one else did and sincerely believe yourself in the right yet have everyone else say something else.

Sherlock just folds his arms and glares at him, clearly believing John is just paying lip service or, worse, mocking him. The obvious defensiveness of his reaction makes John wonder if anyone has ever taken his views on things like this seriously before. They are a bit out there but John has seen the sharp intelligence that hides behind Sherlock's eyes often enough to know that he isn't just spouting off randomly. If he says it, he genuinely believes that he is correct. Even if he is a bit of a git when it comes to actually getting the point across. 

Sighing, John gets up and retrieves the blanket from the floor, draping it back over Sherlock's legs. He looks up at the younger man's face, trying to get him to see that John's comment wasn't meant to be mean-spirited. "I'm not making fun, Sherlock. I mean it. I might not understand it exactly but I can sympathise with seeing the world differently than others."

Sherlock drops his gaze but, after a moment, his arms loose and he nods slightly. Picking at the blanket, he mumbles a thank you. 

Inclining his head, John pushes to his feet and goes back to his chair. Neither of them of them says anything for long minutes, the low background noise of the television the only sound as they both try to settle back into themselves. John isn't entirely sure what's happened but he gets the feeling he's just seen a side of Sherlock that the younger man doesn't show to many people and hardly successfully when he does (obviously). The fact that John hadn't been dismissive as Sherlock seemed to have expected has made things strange in some way. John just hopes it isn't the sort of strangeness that can't be overcome. 

He is still trying to puzzle out what had occurred when Sherlock's voice comes, low and quiet, but ridiculously smug. "I told you your limp was psychosomatic."

John's eyes jump to him but Sherlock still isn't looking at him, eyes directed instead towards the television, though John can by his faraway gaze that he isn't actually taking anything that's going on on the screen in. Allowing his gaze to slide away, John looks to where his cane is still propped up by the side of his chair. It isn't as if it had taken many steps to get the blanket for Sherlock but the bending and getting up should have been far more difficult than it had been without the use of his cane. Grudgingly, he shakes his head in disbelief, peripherally noting the self-satisfied smile slowly working its way onto Sherlock's face. "Shut up," he mutters, not unkindly. 

Sherlock's only reply is to snort. 

Huffing, but smiling lightly, John settles back, feeling at ease once again. Whatever test it is that they'd just come up against he feels it's safe to say that they've adequately passed. Lifting his feet to the ottoman, he crosses them at the ankles, getting comfortable. "So," he says, eventually, keeping his voice light and his attention toward to the television. "are you going to tell me _exactly_ how you decided Jameson wasn't a serial killer? Those clues the police missed and all that?"

Sherlock's head turns toward him and John can feel those strange coloured eyes boring holes into the side of his face. He doesn't move though, doesn't turn to face to Sherlock. 

"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock asks after a moment. His voice sounds mildly suspicious, as if he doesn't quite trust John's sincerity, and, once again, John has to wonder just what sort of reactions Sherlock has been getting up to this point because, really, Sherlock has a theory that might clear a man's name as a serial killer and why wouldn't he want to hear the reasoning behind that? He says as much, meeting Sherlock's gaze stoically and after his eyes skip over John's face, searching, reading, _finding_ John doesn't know what, Sherlock nods. "Very well," he breathes out. 

Pulling his legs up, Sherlock rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers in front of his face. He starts his explanation slowly, telling John about his deductions about the serial killer based on what the media had reported. He acknowledges that he might be wrong on a few things since the media is hardly the best way to get information in this case (the crime scene would be _so_ much better, he tells John with a calculating gleam in his eyes, to which John makes sure to point out that he'd likely get himself arrested if he tried breaking into crime scenes) but it's the best he has. By the time he gets to comparing the differences between what he's figured out about the killer and what he's figured out about Jameson, he's becomes far more animated and is speaking so rapidly John's surprised he isn't tripping over his words. 

It's rather a lot to follow and some of it sounds almost like leaps to John but Sherlock sounds so _sure_ that John finds himself hard-pressed to stay disbelieving. Sherlock has an answer for every question John asks when he doesn't quite see Sherlock's logic and, in the end, he's sitting back in his chair, nodding dazedly. He's quiet for long seconds before he manages, "That's incredible. Absolutely mad but incredible. Brilliant."

Sherlock's face contorts in confusion and then goes funny, cycling through emotions John can't quite place before settling somewhere in the vicinity of mild surprise. "Really?" he asks. 

John nods again, feeling mildly like a bobble-head doll. "Absolutely."

Sherlock's face softens and he gives a brief nod before flopping back to lie on the couch curled up on his side. His eyes float back towards the television but they're distant again, unfocused. "Nice someone thinks so."

John doesn't know what to say to that so he doesn't say anything at all, just sort of hums quietly. When it's obvious that Sherlock's done engaging, slipped back into himself, and there will be no more talking, at least not for now, John resigns himself to going back to his book. It's hard to focus and he doesn't make much progress but he tries anyway because otherwise he'll have to think about Sherlock's brilliance and how arrogant and unsure he manages to be all at the same time and how much John desperately wants to fix it and make it so Sherlock never second guesses if someone really means it when they give him a compliment again.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning dawns to John rushing through making breakfast and getting ready. He has to be in for the early shift and he's overslept. He's fumbling into his shoes, half-eaten toast dangling from his mouth, when Sherlock sits up, eyes bleary and slightly glazed. He rubs the heel of one hand into his eye before flopping over to lie on his back, watching as John wiggles his shoe into place. 

John takes the time to chew and swallow another bit of toast before engaging Sherlock. "Morning," he says, pushing to his feet with the aid of his cane. 

"Hmm," Sherlock hums. "Running late?" 

John nods. "Just a bit. I made you breakfast though. It's in the micro and you can heat it up when you're ready. I also laid out your meds. _Please_ take them and on time, too. You're just starting to get better and I'd like it if you kept on that way."

Sherlock grunts non-commitally and John narrows his eyes but he really is going to be late and he has no time to argue with Sherlock over his eating habits. 

"Seriously, Sherlock, please eat. And make yourself something later as well because those meds need you to eat first." John quickly finishes his toast and downs the dregs of his tea. He puts the cup in the sink and gathers up his things, slipping into his jacket and gloves and bundling up in his scarf. 

He's halfway to the front door when he remembers. Pausing, he turns back to Sherlock, bracing his weight on his cane. "What do you want for dinner later and, also, is there anything you want me to pick up for you on my way back?" 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and stares. John gets the feeling Sherlock is doing his deducing thing again, reading things from John and his environment that John isn't quite sure he wants Sherlock to, right this second. He doesn't particularly want Sherlock seeing things about him that he hasn't even figured out for himself yet. 

Finally, after a long moment where the staring is starting to slip into uncomfortable-and-slightly-unnerving territory, Sherlock releases his gaze and shrugs. "Some toiletries would be nice, I suppose. And maybe Thai. If you're going to insist on the eating."

"I am," John nods. "And all right." He hesitates for a moment. "I'll see you later, then."

Sherlock nods back and settles back on the couch, curling up and turning his face to its back. John is nearly through the door when he says, "You really should skip the therapy session, though. Your therapist is honestly awful."

John doesn't pause for more than a beat. He just closes the door behind him and doesn't try to figure out how Sherlock knows he's meant to have therapy that day because, really, it's been proved more than once that Sherlock has a brilliant mind and sees far too much, and trying to sort out what gave him away will only make John's brain hurt. Instead, he just hurries to the station to catch the tube to work because he's still terribly behind time.

* * *

The clinic is relatively slow that morning and John finds himself bored and distracted in between patients. It isn't that he has nothing to do, he certainly _does_ \-- there is a pile of paperwork, more than a few patient files he can update and he has a few medical journals that he hasn't finished going through -- but he doesn't particularly want to do any of that. Instead, his mind seems intent on ruminating on his brief interaction with Sherlock that morning and trying to figure out what on earth he'd been thinking. Because, in retrospect, he had to have been out of his mind.

It may have come off as innocent and innocuous but if he analyses it -- like he probably should have done before he'd said anything -- there is the weight of quite a lot of expectations and assumptions behind it. Dinner's fine, everyone needs to eat, but getting Sherlock things implies that his stay will be extended. Not that John would mind that, per se, but it has hardly been discussed. He doesn't even know what it is they're doing at _this_ point, much less what will happen in the future. 

He had brought Sherlock home to help him recover, but his illness, despite the worrying initial phase, is mild and he would be well again in days. What happens after that, though, John hasn't really thought about. It seems silly to think that Sherlock will just keep hanging about his flat but John isn't sure he wants to see him go and he's self-aware enough to know that not all of it is because he would feel bad to leave Sherlock to go back to the streets. John is perfectly willing to admit that a selfish part of himself doesn't want to lose Sherlock's company. He's only been in John's flat two nights but already John is used to him and it just feels as if it would be far too empty now to go back to having the flat to himself. His brain has taken the notion of sharing space with Sherlock and extended it into the vague, far-flung future so seamlessly that John can't imagine it not being so. Which is, of course, a problem because there has been no indication that it would last for any longer than it takes for Sherlock to get well again. 

John's pretty sure he could offer but he has no idea what sort of reaction Sherlock would have. He can see it going well and and, just as easily, see it going badly. Sherlock likes him well enough, John knows, but he's also fiery and independent. It's obvious he doesn't trust easily and if, at any point, he doubts John's intent, the result will be barbs and insults thrown with cutting precision to wound John in the places that hurt him the most. 

He's seen Sherlock do it before, when someone makes a comment a step too far about him or the people he associates with. He's watched Sherlock strip grown men, made conceited and haughty by material possessions, down to nothing but bare bones with only a few carefully chosen words. 

It was more than a bit not good and John had said as much but Sherlock had waved him off, ignoring his words, and John hadn't bothered to protest because his admonition had been half-hearted at best, given what had led to Sherlock's bout of vitriol. 

It's a sobering thought to consider those destructive intentions aimed at him but John supposes he won't be able to know whether there is reason to worry about it or not until -- and unless -- he puts the offer to Sherlock. Which he still isn't sure is something he's going to do. He doesn't even know how any of it would work. It is just a fanciful idea at this point and he should truly stop and consider the logistics of it, the pros and cons, before he makes a decision one way or the other on whether or not to suggest it. 

Sighing as his intercom buzzes and Sarah, the nurse working with him that shift, informs him his next patient is there, John forces all thoughts of Sherlock and the future out of his head and puts his attention to focusing on the present where he has patients to tend to and a shift to finish. 

 

The day is tedious and drags on far too long for John's tastes but, eventually, his shift winds down and he's able to begin preparations to leave. He's managed, for the most part, to keep his thoughts from straying to Sherlock over the course of the day after forcing his attention back to work with the exception of once, when he glanced at the clock and realised it would be around time for Sherlock's meds and wondered if he'd taken them, and then again at lunch, when his mind had floated back to Sherlock's theory of Carter Jameson being innocent when the story had come up in passing on the radio. It wasn't ideal but, in the end, with only the two real slips, John's taking it as a success. Sort of. 

He _had_ ended up calling the police, as well, after lunch, still bothered by the story and wanting to present Sherlock's theories even if there was nothing to be done with it, so he doesn't know if his success was really all that great but he isn't going to consider the point too hard. Besides, the officer he had spoken to on the phone was quite patient and listened to everything John had to say even though he's quite sure his translations of Sherlock's explanations left a lot to be desired and possibly left out more than a few relevant points. The officer'd promised to look into the information he'd relayed and had taken John's details in case he needed to follow up. John's doubts on that happening were high but he had offered them easily enough. 

Sighing, John collects the last of his things and picks up his cane after shrugging into his coat. Stopping on the way to bid Sarah goodbye, he heads out the door. He wavers for a moment, trying to decide if he truly wants to go to his therapy session but, despite Sherlock's commentary in the morning and his own doubts as to the efficacy as to the therapy in his specific case, he can't bring himself to miss it. 

Decision made, he squares his shoulders and turns in the opposite direction of the tube station to walk the few blocks to his therapist, Ella's, office. 

The session goes much the same as all the ones before it have gone. John isn't good at sharing himself with others and, though Ella doesn't push heavily, she pushes enough to make John's hackles rise and put him on the defensive. They spend much of the time talking around each other, Ella trying to be helpful and convince John to open up but coming across more grating intended -- it's probably mostly in John's head, really -- and John evading and dancing around the issues he really should be talking about.

He can't bring himself to, though. He can't be that vulnerable to her -- maybe not to _any_ human being -- and so he sidesteps when she asks how he's sleeping, or how the depression is, the tremor. 

Because it's fine. All fine. 

Only it's not. Not truly. But that's his own business. 

The only remotely significant piece of information John volunteers for the period is, strangely, about Sherlock. Ella doesn't really read John's blog -- it's an exercise for him to learn to share details about himself -- but she's read the lastest post and comments on it, saying it's nice to hear he's connecting with friends, that he's engaging. John smiles and waves a hand, brushing it off, and tells her she might not think that if she met Sherlock but, yea, to John, it feels pretty great. 

He leaves Ella's feeling mildly better than he usually does and catches the tube home. He stops off to get Sherlock's things and calls for take-away from his phone, timing it so that the food should get to his a few minutes after he arrived. 

When he finally makes it back to the flat it's dark out but for some reason the lights are still off inside. Ignoring the worry that floats up, poking at his gut, John unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping the overhead light on and calling for Sherlock. 

There's no answer and the sitting room is empty but the coffee table's been commandeered for John knows not what, covered with newspapers, a pair of scissors and various clippings set aside, so he's pretty sure Sherlock hasn't ditched out but it doesn't make him feel better about there being no response to his calls. He hadn't thought it a risk but he's starting to get images of Sherlock sprawled out, unresponsive, on the floor somewhere because his fever came back worse and he didn't have any way to get in touch. 

Checking the remaining rooms in the flat, John confirms that his fear isn't actually a reality and Sherlock is, instead, just totally missing, a fact which really shouldn't annoy John as much as it does -- and it _does_ annoy him because now he's wondering if Sherlock didn't just get fed up in the middle of his appropriation of John's coffee table and walk out without so much as a by your leave -- because John isn't his keeper and he has no claim to him and if he knows anything about Sherlock it's that social niceties are not his thing so he really should just be letting it go as one of Sherlock's quirks. Besides, there is also a possibility that something happened to make Sherlock leave and, if that's the case, John's going to feel really shitty thinking he would just up and leave like that. 

Huffing out a heavy breath, John runs a rough hand through his hair, shaking his head to dispel the thoughts of Sherlock and makes his way to his bedroom intent on changing out of his work clothes. He could do with a bath, really -- a nice long soak to get rid of all the stress of the day -- but he knows he won't have time before the food arrives -- food he got mainly for Sherlock, at that, who isn't even here to eat it, the little shit. So, yea, John's letting it go really well. 

 

He's gotten mostly changed, picking out a shirt to pull on when he hears the sound of footsteps in the hall. Pulling a T-shirt over his head, John turns. He's on edge because _there are footsteps in his flat_ but at the same time he doesn't automatically reach for his gun like he maybe should because a part of him is sort of hoping it's just Sherlock come back. 

Shifting his weight on his feet, John moves slowly to his room door. "That you, Sherlock?" he calls, poised to move at any hesitation or indication that it wasn't. 

"Quite," comes Sherlock's baritone barely a second before he appears in the doorway himself. "Hello," he greets. 

Relaxing, John smiles softly at him. "Hi," he replies, moving to slip past Sherlock and back into the sitting room to await the food delivery. "Where did you get to, then? You weren't here when I got in."

Dropping onto the couch, Sherlock slips off his shoes and pulls his legs up underneath him. "You came back later than I expected. I got bored."

"I see," John nods absently. He can't help but notice that Sherlock is wearing his own clothes once more and that he has folded -- or, at least, sort of folded. It's a bit of a generous usage of the word, really -- the blankets he's been using and dropped them over the arm of the couch. It seems to John a lot like he'd been preparing to make his leave. Only the newpapers are working to convince him otherwise. "Went for a walk, then?"

Sherlock hums an assent. "I was hoping I'd stumble across something interesting but no such luck. People are dull." His gaze sharpens on John. " _You_ went to therapy. Why?"

John raises an eyebrow. "I'm meant to go, Sherlock. And what about you? Did you take your medication and eat like I asked?"

A muscle tics almost imperceptively in his cheek and Sherlock's gaze flits to a point to the left of John. "Of course. Doctor's orders, right?"

"You're a bloody liar," John tells him, without heat, standing to answer the door when it rings. 

Collecting and paying for their dinner, he shuts the door behind the delivery man and brings it inside. Sherlock's shifting the newspapers from the coffee table, clearing space, and John puts the bag on the newly empty area. "Right, then," he says, "I mainly bought this for you, so you're going to eat and like it."

Sherlock's lips quirk up ever so slightly at the sides. "Am I?"

"Yes," John declares, settling himself onto the couch beside Sherlock. "And, while we eat, you can explain what all that is about." He waves a hand at Sherlock's papers. 

Glancing at the clippings, Sherlock looks back at John for a beat before nodding shortly. "All right, then."

Returning the nod, John sets about sorting out the food with Sherlock's help, everything so easy he can't really believe that a mere few minutes ago he'd thought Sherlock had left or that he still might. Not that John knows for sure, honestly; but Sherlock did come back and he seemed comfortable with John so that counts for something, right?


End file.
